Francis Levy - Erotomania - A Romance

There's an old line from Freud, "Neurosis is reminiscence," which probably summarized the paralysis I was facing. I was stuck in repetitive behavior which derived from conflicts I'd always had with women. I didn't want to change anything in our lives, but I was troubled. One night after a particularly mindblowing fuck, in which I was thrusting with such ferocity as Monica cried out for more that I thought the end of my dick was going to come out of her ass, I found myself wandering in the neighborhood just as in the old days. For a moment I didn't know who I was or where. No one had ever bothered us in our industrial neighborhood, and at night the streets could be quite empty. On this occasion, I was confronted by two oversized gentlemen who called me a "punker" and started to punch me in the head. Seeing me staggering and disoriented after the fuck, the two bullies probably thought I was on something. Speaking of reminiscence, I had a feeling of deja vu.

"I'm not a punker. Punk has been dead for decades anyway," I cried as I fell to the pavement. My attacker showed his appreciation for the historical correction by kicking me in the head.

I was knocked unconscious as I had been that first night I met Bill. It was all just a weird coincidence. Once again, when I awakened I couldn't move my arm. I'd dislocated my shoulder. However, in terms of knowing what was going on, I was in better shape this time. I called Monica. Of course, on the way to the hospital in the ambulance, Monica insisted that sucking my dick would be the best way to alleviate the pain.

In the aftermath of a traumatic event, the victim tends to feel totally helpless. I was imprisoned by my sling and the mixture of pain and paralysis I faced whenever I tried to take the arm out. How would I mount Monica with my arm in this condition? How would she be able to climb on top of me? But all human beings are entrepreneurs at heart, and the ability of the individual to use invention to counteract adversity is almost endless. You have only to look at the ways in which humans have adapted to the exigencies of eccentric environmental and topographical challenges. Look at Mont St. Michel! Within the confines of the hospital, where I also recovered from a concussion and a broken finger, we came up with positions we had never tried before. My injury had unleashed the childlike propensity to play that lurks deep down inside all of us. Rather than bemoaning the loss of my arm, I actually began to enjoy the limitations that had been imposed on me by illness. Monica and I became deeply involved in toe sucking, which is also known as shrimping. At one point, as she stood over my face, looking down at me imperiously with stiletto heels, a leather bustier, and nothing else on, I actually thanked my assailant aloud. I was silenced from continuing with my encomium to his ability to maim when Monica took off her shoe and shoved her big toe into my mouth. She'd just gotten a pedicure, and the alcohol smell of nail polish mixing with the herring scent of pussy is an aroma I will always connect with room 810 in Central General Hospital.

How reticent we are to break the rigid routines which dominate our existence! Strange as it may seem, getting mugged opened my eyes up to some aspects of Monica I'd never seen before. Normally, I mounted her from her right side, so I got a good view of her right arm and shoulder. When it came to caressing, I paid more attention to her right breast because I was there first, and I used her right shoulder to catapult myself on top of her. Now with my left side immobilized, I had to start to mount her by pushing off with my right arm, thus favoring her left shoulder, arm, and breast. I'd never noticed it. Her left nipple was slightly larger then her right. Isn't it strange that you think you know a person, and it's only under conditions of great stress-like soldiers under fire-that you really come to know each other? The time I spent in Central General was a journey of discovery. In two days, Monica and I discovered what General Shapiro had been unsuccessfully trying to show us for months-that pleasure was an open door rather than a set of rigid rules. During my first day I was in great discomfort. There were a few times when Monica wanted to fuck that I couldn't rise to the occasion. I was in so much pain that I didn't even want a blowjob. Monica started to tell me stories to relax me and hopefully to lull me to sleep. The stories, of course, reflected her preoccupations. They were all about stud-like princes with enormous cocks, and horny maidens who wanted to get fucked in the ass by the stud-like prince and all his friends. There were romantic moonlight gangbangs on deserted beaches and tales of lonely beauties on windswept heaths with only their trusty stallions to blow At one point, as my eyes closed and Monica's tale spread itself out before my imagination, I felt myself starting to come without her even touching me. I look back on this as a white-light experience, a moment of spiritual enlightenment I wouldn't have had if it weren't for the brutal beating I took.

Just two days after we returned home from the hospital, I noticed the first real change in our relationship. I'd had to fly out of town for a one-day consultancy on a production of The Pajama Game opening in Dubuque. When I returned home that night, we were back to our usual selves. Monica had already ordered my egg roll. Ting had his nose up against the window, and Monica had her mouth tightly wrapped around my cock. As she knelt down in front of me and started to lick under my balls, making her way up the chocolate brick road, I noticed Ting's hand moving up and down. It was all reassuringly the same. What was wonderful about our relationship was our ability to do the same things all the time while getting ever greater enjoyment from them. Our ability to squeeze so much pleasure out of similar circumstances was a primitive expression of gratitude, I suppose. I thought to myself that nobody had ever sucked my cock and licked my asshole the way Monica could. I loved her technique as much as I loved her; in fact, I'd come to understand that it was her sexual technique that was the heart of my love for her.

We paid Ting after the first fuck. That way we knew all three of us were satisfied. Before eating, we'd have a second fuck. It was after the second fuck-often the most powerful in that it made me ejaculate from the very core of my she popped out with a question that had never crossed her lips before. "Could we go to the museum?" she asked as she got up to dip my egg roll in mustard before thrusting it in my mouth. General Shapiro's advice had finally penetrated her defenses.

She was speaking of our local municipal museum, which has had the same exhibit of American Indian blankets for the past quarter of a century. Considering the generally low level of social services in our area and the glaring need for things like road repair, arts funding has never been a priority. I'd done a few plays at our local regional theater, but stopped when they got a director who was a John Phillip Sousa nut; the past two seasons had been totally devoted to a thirty-hour-long tribute to Sousa that made Der Ring des Nibelungen look like an episode of "Barney," and our one opera house rarely deviates from Gilbert and Sullivan. Despite the fact I don't have the slightest interest in Indian blankets, I considered Monica's suggestion. Maybe it was just age. Time tames even the wildest stallions. Even the toughest neo-Nazi biker, who has spent half his life behind bars, starts to think about retirement communities once he gets out of jail and stops having to worry about former enemies coming up behind him with a piece of wire. Maybe Monica was ready to settle down.

However, 1 had to ask myself, did I really want to encourage her? 1 may have started the ball rolling by dragging her to Shapiro, but did 1 want to suffer the consequences? Wouldn't we disagree about the Indian blankets just as we had about other subjects on the few occasions we had talked in the past? Monica was a great fuck. Everyone grows old and dies, and someday 1'd have to deal with that, but why not enjoy it for today and worry later about what kind of rapport we'd have once our life of ferocious fucking and sucking was over.